Out-Out Patient Care at my mental health clinic came with pluses and minuses, like everything in life. Was it better than going through a hospital program? I think so. Maybe. It gave structure to my day, a safe place to be, no red tape or ridiculous bureaucracy, no crazy-making group therapy. It also left me too much alone, no program except what I brought with me—my art supplies, a book about mindful depression that I never read, worksheets from my therapist on dialectic behavioral skills that irritated me in their simplicity. Mostly, it was a different way to wait out the storm, which is really the most important skill in dealing with bipolar disorder.

I’m not right. Not yet. I still feel disconnected, separated from the rest of the world by a transparent, sound-muffling barrier. People seem alien and unappealing. The nightmares still come. Agitation keeps me fidgeting between making my Solstice cards, playing Farm Heroes Saga or Cookie Jam on my phone, and jumping in my car to stalk the perfect binge food. I’m not done with bronchitis, either, which adds another layer of weariness and self-pity.

So, more waiting. And accepting each day as it comes. Today I will do laundry, sort letters cut out of magazines, give my cats treats, watch Fringe on my bed with a cup of squash soup, sew beads.